The Cohen apartment was at the front of the building, its single window overlooking the street. Eddie had often sat there, watching the dusk sift past the glass, waiting for the time when he could sneak away. Now he wondered if his father had been aware each time he opened the door, just wide enough to make his escape.
After several minutes, Eddie looked up to see the curtains move. He lifted his hand to wave before the curtain closed. He had no idea if his father would keep the envelope that had been delivered, or if he would burn it in one of the two soup bowls he owned, or perhaps donate it to the poor box in the shul. Eddie wondered if he’d even recognized the man across the street as his only son.
Being back in the neighborhood gave Eddie the jitters, and his skin prickled. He considered stopping at the druggist’s shop on Grand Street where the pharmacist was said not to have left his store for more than twenty years, a self-imposed prisoner, the victim of love gone wrong. But the shop was often closed, and there was no cure for Eddie’s ailment. He wandered, so deep in thought he didn’t notice that the streets where he’d grown up had melted away. He found himself at the river. Water slapped at the row of wooden docks on stilts. He still had the trout, which he now unwrapped from its casing of damp newspaper. The silvery scales were cold and wet. The trout belonged to the river, and that was where Eddie would dispose of it. Rain had begun in earnest, a cold spring shower that left a haze of blue over the mirrored surface. Eddie could barely see New Jersey or make out the ferries that cut through the water. He leaned down, holding the trout in both hands. When he let go he expected it to sink. The rain was falling too hard to see clearly, yet he could spy a trail of light, as if the trout was racing through the water, headed for the depths, his freedom restored.
Eddie sat back on his heels, stunned. He did not believe in life everlasting, or in the prayers of his forefathers, or in miracles of any kind. The movement of the fish was most likely a trick of light, but light was something he did indeed believe in. He had the urge to leap in himself so that he might discover whether or not it was alive, and whether, if he followed the trout, he would find what he had lost when he left his father’s house, when he shut the door and found himself on the dark streets of New York.
THREE
THE DREAMER FROM THE DREAM
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FROM THE TIME I began my career at the museum, my father told me I was a wonder of the world. Yet when I held up my hand mirror to study my face, it did not seem wondrous to me. My features—gray eyes, black eyebrows, high cheekbones, pale complexion—added up to a plain person, a simple individual no one would look at twice. I considered myself to be nothing special, a dull creature who could not compare to those God had made to be unique in all the world, for the living wonders my father employed were as marvelous as they were strange. There were those who could eat fire, making sure to coat their throats before each performance with a thick syrup made in the Indies, and those with limbs so flexible they could flip upside down, standing on their hands for hours at a time. There was a girl not much older than I named Malia, whose arms resembled a butterfly’s wings. Her mother accompanied her to the museum every morning and made up her extraordinarily beautiful face with rouge and black kohl, so that her daughter resembled a monarch butterfly. I tried to befriend Malia, but she spoke only Portuguese, and my father did not wish for me to interact with those he employed. He handed me a book from his library and told me I would be better off befriending the works of Shakespeare.
Of all the living wonders, I was most curious about the Wolfman. He was so thoroughly covered with hair that when he crouched down he appeared to be an animal, albeit one who dressed in pleated trousers, a woolen overcoat, and handcrafted boots. He combed his hair neatly parted down his face so that his eyes might be seen. They were deep set and luminous, a rich brown color, so human it was impossible to judge him as anything other than a man once he gazed at you. The Wolfman’s name was Raymond Morris, and he came from a good family in Richmond, Virginia, who had kept him in the attic to protect him, and also to ensure there’d be no damage to the family’s reputation. He’d been hidden away from the time he was born.
Mr. Morris once confided in me that for most of his life he’d truly believed he had all he would ever need, despite being raised behind locked doors. There was a nursemaid to care for him, and later a manservant brought whatever he wished. He had fine clothes, and any food he desired, for a cook had been hired from Atlanta to see to his whims. As he grew older his greatest joy was reading. Because of this passion, his library surpassed those of many colleges. The life he led was enriched immeasurably by the many novels in his collection, all of which he had read more than once. Although he’d never felt the rain, he knew what it was like from his readings, just as he knew about the limitless sea, and the golden prairie, and the pleasures of love. He was convinced that his world was enough, he told me, until he read Jane Eyre. Then his opinion changed. He could feel the world shifting as he devoured the story. He suddenly understood how a person could go mad if locked away from all others, and he found himself half in love with the first Mrs. Rochester, the character other readers might consider the villainess of the book. He climbed out his window the same night he finished the novel. For the very first time he felt the rain splash against his skin.